Sisters - Closer to Seven
by Quillweave
Summary: A glimpse into the distant past, and the trials and tribulations of having an older sister. Early, major DTD character spoilers.


NOTE: The first chapter of this (hopeful) series contains a character heavily related to my larger fanfiction, Dust to Dust, and thus contains early, heavy spoilers for it. For those of you who've read and enjoyed the characters within, I hope you enjoy this glimpse into their past. I think I'd like to post more short stories like it in the future - little snippets into the lives of Sisters and those who put up with them in the Dark Brotherhood. They may or may not be involved with Dust to Dust, as this one is. Who knows - I might do something similar with 'Brothers' in the future. I have the enormous benefit and pain-in-the-ass of having grown up with both.

Thanks for reading, everyone. I'm so grateful, and that's never going to change.

* * *

"That was too close."

"We were fine, dammit. We could have done it perfectly, if you hadn't made us run – "

"We could have been found, arrested and hanged, you bull-headed idiot."

Whispers darted back and forth like rats in the shadow of the alley, two small figures curled up and panting side-by side. One groaned, pulling back his hood to let the sweat dripping down his brow begin to dry in the cool evening air.

"The Speaker will hang us."

"He won't be pleased, but he'll understand." The boy grumbled as his Sister, in name if not in blood, stretched out her legs with a sigh. "Better to complete a job and miss the bonus than risk not completing it at all."

Lucien hissed through his teeth. Sithis, dammit all. They'd been so close. "We could have had it."

"You'll learn." A groan from the woman next to him as she rested a hand on her stomach, blowing dark strands of hair out of her face. "Look, you think I want to go back to the Speaker in failure, in shame?"

"I think the Speaker would let you get away with bloody anything, if you flutter your lashes and ask nicely."

"Wrong, brat." A whack on the boy's arm. Abelle glared, lip curled in a pout. "Look, I'm not putting our lives on the line just because you want to be his gods-damned golden boy."

"I do not – "

Footsteps. Immediately, both fell into silence. A drunk staggered by – for a moment they were not siblings but twins in shadow, silhouetted figures pressed up against the wall, breath held. A belch, a too-long piss against the corner, and the drunkard stumbled on.

A sigh of relief. Abelle stood slowly, shaking her head as Lucien did the same. His legs still ached – scaling that building had been no easy task. "…You'll understand, someday."

"Don't patronize me." A grumble from him as he glanced around the corner, then reached into his satchel. Their job was done. A different kind of stealth was needed, now, necessitating a change in clothing. "I get enough of that from Valtieri."

"_Speaker_ Valtieri, you ungrateful little sprog." Lucien rolled his eyes, turning to give his sister some privacy as she, too, changed into something more suitable for the city. "He's got some two-and-a-half centuries on you. I think he's earned the right."

"Yeah? Well, what gives you the right? You've only got six years on me."

"Closer to seven." A grin over her shoulder, eyes flashing. "Besides, I'm prettier."

Sisters. Lucien bit back another complaint, sliding his tunic over his head and busying himself with the laces. Well, the Speaker was right about one thing – he was outgrowing his clothes. They fit tighter now around his chest and forearms, where once it all hung so loose. A point of pride in that, even knowing he'd have to spend some of the earnings from this job on replacing them.

"Engh. Fuck's sake…"

"Abelle?" He turned on his heel instinctively, brow furrowed. In the short time they'd known each other, taking lives, facing death, he'd come to know her as well as any flesh-and-blood sibling he could have had. And that sound – that was a sound of pain. "What's wrong? Were you injured?"

"No, I'm not_ fucking_ injured…" Another growl as she waved him away, using her skirt as a cover for bare legs. "Give me the bandages, from the pack."

"Why? You said you weren't injured."

"_Because I gods-damned-shitting-told-you-to, you fucking little shit_."

"_Sithis_ – " He raised his hands in surrender and backed away, rummaging for a long moment before letting the bag hang limp in his hands. "… Ah. Abelle?"

"_What."_

"… I – didn't pack them."

This time the string of curses was in Bretony, only a few familiar to his ears. She fixed him with a seething glare, hard enough to make those ears turn red. "How many times have I_ told_ you to be prepared?"

"If you're hurt – "

"I am not _hurt_, Lachance, but I _am_ bleeding, which is why I need bandages, which is why you are an enormous pain in my _arse_!"

A blink. Then, it sank in. "… Oh."

"_Oh,"_ she echoed, voice dripping caustic. Then, a sigh. She pinched the bridge of her nose, gesturing for him to turn around again so she could put on the skirt properly. "I'll deal with it."

"Where do you want to go?"

"The Cock-Eyed Crow. Not too squalid, not too fancy, and the innkeeper is one of ours. She knows me, won't squawk to the guards about any late-night guests." He had to admit, even in her worst moods Abelle was level-headed. Always with a plan of action, always steady and reliable. She glanced back and raised a brow. "Understood?"

"Understood." He knew better than to argue, now, staring at his feet. A stupid mistake. He still lamented the loss of the bonus – of Speaker Valtieri's approval – but his breach had been worse. What if she _had_ been injured?

He wore his chagrin like a brand, bright even in the dark. Abelle sighed, pursing her lips, voice softer. "… Just – let me do the talking, alright? You've done well tonight, otherwise."

His muttered thanks were lost as she turned around, leading the way through deserted streets towards the vineyard district of Skingrad. A pretty city – clean stone and high spires, fragrant with the scent of summer's bounty from the farms and fields. A few criss-crossed paths through alleys, standard procedure to avoid patrolling guards, and they approached the inn door.

"For patrons, if anyone asks – we're brother and sister, our father is a drunk." They could pass as related easily enough. The same black hair and dark eyes, though Abelle was fairer, his own skin olive from his Imperial heritage. "We're just looking for a quiet place to spend the night while he sleeps it off, so we don't get beaten for waking him. Doubt you'll need that much detail, but it's good to have our story straight."

A shared nod and they entered, Lucien blinking in the new light. She was right, as usual – it wasn't a luxurious inn. Some in Skingrad could rival even those in the Imperial City, rooms he'd gawked at during work there. But neither was it squalid – small and tidy, warm and welcoming, it offered a much-needed respite for the night.

"Good evening, ma'am."

"Evening, kids." The innkeeper, a stoutly built Imperial woman with iron-streaked hair, looked the two over with a smile. "Little late for supper, but I can heat you up some leftovers I was saving for tomorrow."

"That would be lovely, thank you. Some clean linens and a pitcher of water as well, please." He still caught himself jealous, sometimes, of her air. Abelle moved and spoke with an inherent grace, as though she'd been born for it – and had been, according to the Temple that raised her. A bastard noble child of High Rock, born here out of public eye and abandoned. All too easy to picture her in fine silk and silver, giving that subtle, graceful tilt of her head.

But she hadn't always been like that, had she? She, too, had been in his place, an awkward fledgeling. And someday, he'd be in hers.

"… two beds, single room, plus the meal for two comes to thirty septims, m'love. You can come get the meal in 'bout twenty, give or take."

"Of course." The gentle clink of coins exchanging hands signaled their safety for the night. Even if Abelle had been right and their victim was found moments after they ran, the innkeeper would cover for them. He never could have imagined the sheer breadth of the Brotherhood's operation, when it was still but a myth.

"_Viens, foutriquet."_

"I'm _taller_ tha – " Lucien bit back his growl and rolled his eyes instead. At least she couldn't scold him for that, back already turned as she made her way up creaky stairs to the shelter of their room.

A relief to be there, job done, the outside world cut off. They were safe. The satisfaction of a contract accomplished was tainted, of course, but at least they had that. Still, his mouth tasted sour as they settled, Abelle throwing down the satchel and gesturing for him to turn around once more.

He obeyed, laying on the opposite bed, facing the wall. "Why didn't we just go to the Skingrad Sanctuary?"

"Same reason Skingrad's Family doesn't trot into ours when they're up that way, unless they have to. It looks bad, to have a lot of different people in and out of one place. The more we limit that, the better."

That made sense. Still, he suddenly, dearly missed the place he now called home. Shadowy halls, the smell of wax and smoke, their pet rat scrabbling up to his hand for scraps during meals…

Speaker Vicente, looking over them all with a nod or dismissing them to their duties with that touch of a smile.

"… I still think we could have had it."

A long sigh. Not of exasperation, not this time. "… You might be right. We might have been able to."

He rose on his elbow, stopped himself from turning just in time as he snapped. "Then why did we run?"

"I said _'might."_ Abelle's 'don't test me' voice shot back, a hiss, before softening. "The Speaker would much rather us return alive, without a bonus, than die here."

"You wouldn't die for the Brotherhood?"

"Don't be stupid. Of _course_ I would, without question. But there's a distinction." A growl of annoyance directed elsewhere between her teeth before she continued. "If whoever was in that hall had opened the door while we were sawing that bastard's head off…"

"We could have killed _them_, too."

"If we had to, but that's a bad habit to keep. We're contract assassins, not indiscriminate barbarians. If we start leaving a trail of corpses wherever we go, we'll sully that reputation. No one wants to hire a pack of butchers for such delicate work."

"But – "

"_Listen_. If whoever was out there kept walking – yes, we might have been fine. But if they hadn't, and we stayed, we'd be dead."

"We're better than that."

"Better than the entire city guard?" She turned around on her own bed, flopping onto her back with a sigh and a hand on her belly. "It's simple risk versus reward, Lucy. The reward of a little extra coin and a completely satisfied client isn't worth the risk of our corpses being strung up here. Not because it's us, not out of fear of death," she cut him off the moment he took a breath to interrupt. "But because it would shame our _Family_, for us to die here like that. Because we can't serve the Night Mother like this if we're dead."

A long moment of silence. Lucien narrowed his eyes, jaw set. "… I don't agree."

"The Speaker would explain it better than I can. Just – trust me. I'm loyal as you, and I've been around longer. One day, you'll – _mgh_ \- understand."

"You alright?"

"No, but I will be. Didn't the Speaker tell you about all of…" A hand gesturing to her lower half, a bemused little smirk tugging at her lip. "This?"

His face went flat, voice dull. "I already knew. I've known since I was a _child_."

"You're still a baby in_ my_ eyes, Lucy."

"_Six years."_

"Seven." Eyes squeezed shut she gave a mirthless grin, waving her hand towards the door. "Go check if our food is ready, will you?"

That wasn't a request, even if it was phrased like one. A grunt and he pushed up off the bed towards the door, trotting downstairs where the only souls were some half-conscious drunk nursing his tankard and the innkeeper herself, scrubbing a plate.

"Hello, love. Got your meals here." The woman pushed forward a heavy tray on the countertop – bread and hot stew, making his nose twitch. But he didn't reach for the tray, not yet. A moment of thought, his brow furrowing.

"… Have you got anything, a tea or herbs, for… you know." He felt his face turn red under the woman's inquisitive look, clearing his throat. "A woman. _Monthly._"

"Ah." A knowing smile as she stood upright, red cheeks pressed upwards to make the corners of her eyes crease. "Just a moment and I'll have something – no charge, dear." She shook her head when his hand went to the little purse on his belt. "This your first time in Skingrad?"

"…Yes." He'd never been good at smalltalk. Besides, this woman was a servant of the Brotherhood. Not a proper assassin, not one of them, just someone beholden by her life to their cause. Why was she talking to him like she might at any moment pinch his cheeks?

"It's a nice city. I always have plenty of company." She bent over, wide bottom in the air as she pulled a kettle off the hearth and poured steaming water into a mug. A pinch of something cream-coloured and she let it sit, turning back to her little kitchen and adding a dark square to the tray.

"There you are, dear." She gave him a wink, making him inwardly squirm. _Outsiders._ "Kind of you to think of your sister, mhm? You need anything else, just come down. My brother takes over come dawn, but he'll help if you need it."

"… Thank you." A relief at last to take the tray and make his escape. He took slow, steady steps back upstairs, needing a bit of acrobatics to press it against his chest and free a hand for the door.

"Smells good." Abelle watched curiously as he deposited their meal on the table, making way to inspect their it. "What else did you get?"

"She said…"

"Willowbark." She took up the mug and held it like a treasured thing, inhaling the fumes with eyes drifting shut. "Oh, ambrosia. Bless your little black heart, Lucien." One eye cracked open to note the sweet on the tray. "Is _that_ for me, too?"

"Yes."

"I could kiss you." At the face he made she cackled, taking up her bowl as he did his. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to. I like _men, _not boys."

"And I like women _my _age, not bossy old hags."

"Wasn't it you, not moments ago, whining about six years?"

"_Looks_ more like ten."

"Watch it, you little shit." She threatened with her spoon before turning her attention back to the meal, luxuriating in a bite. "Mmf. Rona's a saint. I'll have to remember to thank her."

Rona. He ate in silence, brow lowered, lost in concentration between mouthfuls. Abelle was right – this was surprisingly good, for inn food, and leftovers at that. But… "… She's talkative."

"Rona? That's her line of work. She's an innkeeper – supposed to be the best source of gossip available. That's why it works for us to have her, to spread the gossip we want people to hear."

He wrinkled his nose despite the mouthful of rosemary and rabbit, grumbling. "She spoke to me like a child."

"Oh, don't take it so personally. We're all her babies, in her eyes." A crack as Abelle rolled her neck and shoulders, then picked up the sweet. "Besides, if you could grow a proper beard she might change her tune."

Lucien scratched at the patchy scruff on his chin with a snort. "Why would she treat us like that? She's a servant. She owes us her life - she should _hate _us."

A high, thin brow arched. Oh, he _hated_ that look – there was a lecture coming. "You think so, do you?"

"_Obviously."_

"Well, you're wrong. Yes, she's a servant, and no, she's not Family, but she's…" Her eyes narrowed in thought, a sip of tea giving her a moment to mull on her words. "… She's _family_ of Family, you understand? Or was."

"I don't."

"Her husband was one of ours. Their son, too. About – ten years ago? They were both killed in a Sanctuary raid, down in Anvil, before they moved that one to Kvatch. She came up here to get away from the memories, I suppose. But she's always been loyal to us." A one-sided shrug. "She'll never slit a throat or scale a building – look at her. But that doesn't mean she shouldn't be appreciated." There was certainly appreciation in Abelle's eyes as she picked up the chocolate, practically purring. "Mm, raspberry filling…"

That made a strange sort of sense. Lucien sat back against the headboard, abandoning his spoon to mop up the last dregs of stew with a chunk of pumpernickel. "… I suppose."

"There's a method to our madness, Lucy-goosy. You're going to learn it all, eventually."

"Sithis' sake – _don't _call me that. Lucyis bad enough."

"You realize, of course, that the more you object the more dearly I want to do so…"

"The only reason I am not forcing you to eat your words is your – _state,_ so why don't you – "

"My _state!_ What, you're not going to slit the next contract's throat if she's already bleeding?"

"_For fuck's sake – "_

"That is what it's for, yes."

"Abelle! – "

"Well, _reproduction_, I suppose, not the act itself. But you know all about _that,_ I'm sure. At your age, probably all you think about – "

At last, a direct hit with his pillow to her face silenced her, but the moment of triumph was short lived. Like a cat she shot towards him, an elbow in his back before she took his arm and twisted it hard, ensuring he couldn't scramble away as he wriggled and cursed.

"If it's any consolation, one day it will be _you _taking your siblings out for shadowing, and you'll get to be the bully. What's that oh-so-quaint Imperial phrase? _'Say Uncle?"_

For a moment he struggled pointlessly, then went lax. Abelle was faster, and up until now had always been stronger. But he'd paid attention, these past months. He'd trained, he'd grown, he'd learned.

"That day might come sooner – " A sudden jerk forced her to the side, allowing him to twist all his momentum away and break off her grip, giving him leverage against the bed to shove her back. "Then you _think._"

A gust of air left her as her back hit the edge of her own bed, as she slumped to the floor. A blink. For a moment, he worried he'd gone too far – training was one thing, but to injure a superior…

But Abelle's eyes glittered, a grin splitting her lips. "You're learning, Lachance. Maybe you're right. That day will come."

"We could go back, just before dawn." He took a deep breath, steadied himself. "Just look through the window to the study. If the body is gone, or if the guard are on alert, we know it's a lost cause. But if it's still there…"

"You never give up, do you?"

"Never."

"Which is why you'll make an excellent assassin. Which is why we want you _alive, _Lucien." She gave him a pointed look. "Talk to the Speaker about it, but I promise you – a bonus isn't worth your life. To serve the Night Mother, to send souls screaming to Sithis is our highest honour, our calling. To please some vengeful cuckold who wants his rival's head left on his porch for his wife to find is _not._"

Anything less than perfection still didn't sit well with him, but perhaps – just perhaps, she had a point. But they had to try. He shrugged, gaze opposite hers.

"Let's get some sleep. If we're going to check before dawn, we should take advantage of the time we have."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call me ma'am _again,_ Lucien, I dare you." She tossed his pillow back with a smirk. "Sleep tight, little Brother."

"… You, as well."

In the time they'd spend together, he'd come to know her as well as any blood-and-flesh sibling. That soft laughter, the sigh, the gentle snores that rose only a few minutes later…

Those were sounds of comfort, and his own soon followed in echo.


End file.
